


The Red Headed Agency

by maypoison



Series: The Network [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Detectives, Eventual Romance, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, Multi, Pregnancy, Reader Insert, Slow Build, The Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypoison/pseuds/maypoison
Summary: Based on the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 'The Red Headed League'.A young and aspiring model comes to Baker Street for assistance after the modelling agency she signed up with in central London completely disappears overnight. Meanwhile you are trying to get used to living with the famous detective at 221B Baker Street, and it is not as easy as you would have thought it would be.





	The Red Headed Agency

You sat at the kitchen table, eating soup slowly out of a tin can. It was a strange thing to do, considering you now officially had a kitchen that you could use whenever you liked, and that meant that you could use bowls, spoons and pans. It should have been a luxury, but here you were, eating like you had when you were on the street. But it was more out of fear than habit. Your new ‘roommate’ Sherlock Holmes had a fondness for experimenting with food and using certain utensils for these experiments. One thing he did not have a fondness for however, was washing up. It was after you had made yourself a seemingly harmless ham sandwich one evening that Sherlock had casually mentioned that he had used the same knife you had used for dissection, and had been planning to grow cultures on the plate that your sandwich was resting on. After that little fiasco, and having spent the entire weekend bent over a toilet, you vowed better to be safe than sorry. Sherlock happened to see the positives in your current predicament however, and was watching you closely for any symptoms.

“Would you cut it out!” You snap, after not being able to take another minute of the detectives prying eyes on you as you tried to eat your soup in peace.

“What?” The detective asks coolly, crossing his arms and leaning back in the kitchen stool he was currently sat in.

You stand from the table, carefully managing to restrain yourself from pouring your remaining lunch all over the man as you walked over to the bin. “You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of lab experiment.”

“No, you’re not the experiment … you just happened to eat it.”

To turn to glare at the man, trying desperately to keep a straight face when you notice that he is smirking at you. He was enjoying this. 

“How hard is it to label things Sherlock? Or even better, why don’t you keep all the things you use for experiments in a different cupboard?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but then closes it quickly. You smile triumphantly, assuming you had won that particular discussion. Clearly you had said some too logical to argue about.  

“I’ll talk to Mrs Hudson about it when she gets back from Bridge.” Sherlock murmurs, before leaning back over his microscope on the kitchen table and peering into it with a determined look on his face.

“Why? I can do it. I don't mind sorting some stuff out in here.” Sherlock gazes at you, about to speak when you raise a hand, effectively cutting him off “Please, just tell me what’s what first. I don’t want anything to jump out at me.”

Your conversation is cut short when a quite rapping comes from the door downstairs. John never knocks when he comes to visit, and Mrs Hudson has a key. Therefore you realise that it must be a -

“Client.” Sherlock says curtly, rising from the table and buttoning his jacket. With a wave of his hand he signals that you should go downstairs, and you move quickly, not wanting to keep whoever this new client was waiting outside in the winter cold.

In the four days you had spent at Baker Street, one of them had been helping Sherlock solve a case, and the others had you in bed or in the bathroom violently ridding yourself of whatever Sherlock had been growing in the kitchen. This was the first time a client had come to visit whilst you had been here, and you couldn’t help the slight flutter of nerves that rose from your stomach. Opening the door however, you stomach flutters for another reason.

A beautiful red headed woman stood before you, huddling herself in her huge coat from the cold. Without a word you move to the side of the door, ultimately inviting her in. She mutters a thank you, and quickly moves to the stairs, making your have to almost run to keep up with her.

When you enter the living room Sherlock is in his usual spot and doesn’t rise when the woman approaches.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The detective says as a greeting, and signals to John’s vacant chair, inviting the young woman to take a seat.

“Thank you Mr Holmes” The woman replies, beginning to shed her huge coat.

“Can I take that?” You offer shyly, holding out your arms. The woman doesn’t even turn to look at you before she almost throws the coat into your awaiting hands, before smoothly sitting down.

You turn to place the coat on the hooks, taking a few seconds before you do to marvel at how warm and luxurious it felt. Designer you decide, and begin to wonder what this woman could want from Sherlock Holmes. She looked wealthy, and young, and healthy. A divorce maybe? A family issue? 

“My name is Jessica Wilson, Mr Holmes, I’m a model here in London.” The woman begins, as you turn to sit on the sofa across from Sherlock and his new client. “I need your help.”

“I assumed as much Miss Wilson” Sherlock replies curtly, and you wonder what it was about Jessica that made him reply so rudely. True, Sherlock was never particular polite with people, but usually he would at least plaster on a fake smile. No such luck for Miss Wilson. 

“I was signed to an agency three weeks ago Mr Holmes. One that had an office building not ten minutes from here …” As the woman spoke, you quietly retrieved the notebook John had given you from your pocket, and began to take notes. “I went there today and, it’s gone!”

At that, you raise your head from your note taking, watching as Sherlock leans forward and clasped his hands under his chin.

“Gone?”

“Yes Mr Holmes, I thought -”

“Tell us more about this agency Miss Wilson.” Sherlock says, interrupting the woman. She looks mildly annoyed for a few seconds, but then quickly regains her composure.

“Well …” The woman begins, and you can tell this is going to be a long story. “I moved to London from China about a month ago. I had always wanted to be a model, and while I was here my assistant found a vacancy for me.”

“Your assistant?” Sherlock asks, and you find yourself watching the detective more than the client. He never usually asked this many questions, so you assumed that that small detail was important.

“Yes, a lovely young man. Anyway, he discovered this new agency that only hires red headed models -”

“What?” You questions, smirking, before clapping a hand over your mouth. The client was glaring at you, and you stammered an apology. “I’m sorry, that just sounds -”

“I know how it sounds.” The young woman all but growls in response. “But it was perfect for me Mr Holmes.” Jessica continues, turning to gaze at the detective. You tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was looking at you instead. “Brilliant pay and I had my own office.”

“How did you get this job Miss Wilson?”

“I went to the address my assistant had given me. I walked in, had a meeting with a lovely young man. I left him my details and the next day he called me, inviting me to come the next day to begin the job.”

“Which entailed …” Sherlock prompts and you can’t tell from the tone of his voice whether he sounded bored or amused.

“I would take pictures. A photographer would be in my office for 9am sharp. I would take pictures with him until midday, and then have an hour for lunch. I would then go back to my office and continuing working with the photographer, looking and editing the photographs and such, until 6pm, when I would head home.”

Sherlock nods to himself, taking in the information and no doubt storing it. You write down everything that Jessica said, paying particular attention to the times.

“It was gone Mr Holmes. I walked to work as usual this morning, but there was no one there. My office was completely empty, the reception desk was gone and no one in the neighbouring buildings had any idea what I was talking about when I asked where the agency had gone.” You watch as Miss Wilson sniffles then, before reaching into her leather handbag that was resting at her feet. She pulls out a handkerchief, and you can’t help but gaze at it.

Where the hell was she from, Victorian London? Who carried handkerchiefs around these days? You can't help but note that down, underlining the words 'rich' and 'weird'. 

“Do you have anything belonging to this office Miss Wilson? A business card? Any paperwork?” Sherlock asks, apparently remaining completely unaffected by the fact that his client was now openly crying in front of him.

“No.” Jessica whispers, before looking up at the detective with sad eyes. “I signed all the paperwork they gave me, and then they said they needed it to be sorted by the head office, so it was all sent away. They never had any business cards.” Miss Wilson stops then, crying even harder into her handkerchief and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

You scowl at him, concerned that his client was going to see him, but he doesn’t look in your direction. Suddenly, you watch as Sherlock’s entire manner changes. He sits forward in his chair, his eyes becoming soft and concerned. Leaning forward he gently places a reassuring hand on the clients own, that rested on her knee.

“We will find them Miss Wilson.” Sherlock says sincerely, and at this point you notice that your mouth had fallen open in shock.

Miss Jessica Wilson smiles then, wiping away her tears before pulling out a business card from her purse and handing it to Sherlock.

“If you hear anything, do not hesitate to contact me.”

Sherlock nods, before standing with his client and beginning to walk the woman to the door of the flat. You shoot up off the sofa, fully intending on collecting the woman’s coat, but Sherlock beats you to it. He holds it out for Jessica to put on, and with a parting thank you and a smile, the client leaves the room, and Sherlock shuts the door behind her.

“Don’t do that.” Sherlock says suddenly, scowling at you before reaching and collecting his own coat.

“Do what?” You ask, worried for a second that he was referring to your earlier outburst.

“You’re not a maid, don’t act like it.” The detective growls and you blink in shock. Sherlock rolls his eyes at you then, before reaching for your own battered and stained coat.

“Sorry.” You murmur, taking your coat from Sherlock and following him from the room. “Where are we going?” You ask once you are out of the building and out onto the cold streets of London.

“To the office building Miss Wilson worked at. We needed to find this ‘Red Headed Agency.”

* * *

The office building wasn’t huge, but more or less appeared to be quite small considering all of the huge skyscrapers you had seen during your travels around London. The street was full of old houses that had since become businesses, and as you and Sherlock walk towards the office building, you take a moment to read all the signs as you pass them. A private dentist, a lawyer, a therapist …  

“An odd place for a modelling agency.” You muse as you walk, wondering why of all places in London a agency would choose here to be its base. Hearing your voice, Sherlock turns to look at you questioningly, slowing down from his usual pace for a few moments. “What do you think happened?” You ask the detective, returning your gaze back to the man as he walked alongside you.

“Most likely a false company.” Sherlock supplies, although he doesn’t sound as convinced as he usually does. “The question isn’t what, but why?”

The building is completely deserted, just as Jessica had said. The even stranger thing however, is the fact that it is unlocked. You and Sherlock share an uneasy glance as you walk in, the detective going in ahead of you.

Sherlock takes off his leather gloves and puts them inside his coat, whilst you reach into your pocket and pull out your trusty notebook. Seeing Sherlock roll your eyes, you glare at him.

“One day, you’ll thank me for always carrying this around. It's useful.” You say, watching as Sherlock climbs over what once appeared to be a reception desk.

Suddenly, a rustling comes from the corner of the room you had been investigating. Sherlock raises his head from where he had been lurking behind the desk, just as the sounds from directly behind you get louder. You turn quickly, preparing yourself to run or dive over the desk. As you back up you notice the sound is coming from behind a doorway.

Abruptly, the door flies open, and to your shock Sherlock pulls out a gun and points it at the open space, where to both of your surprise, absolutely nothing stands. You both stop, frozen for the moment before you notice a small moving figure run to the corner of the room.

“Rats … I hate rats.” The detective hisses, placing his gun back when he had stashed it and carrying on his exploration of the room like nothing had happened.

“What the hell?!” You hiss, surprising yourself with how angry you sound.

“What?” Sherlock asks casually, turning to walk towards another area of the room he had not yet searched.

“You brought a gun?! Why did you bring a gun?!” You continue, trying to keep your voice down and calm your rapidly beating heart.

“I always bring a gun …” Sherlock mutters, before suddenly getting angry and walking out of the room with a growl.

“Nothing?” You ask, and the detective shakes his head.

Walking out of the office building, Sherlock takes his leather gloves out of his pockets and begins to slowly put them back on. You take the time to put away your treasured notebook, after noticing that it was beginning to snow slightly, and not wanting it to get wet.

“She left the office every day to collect lunch ...” Sherlock mutters under his breath, craning his neck to look up and down the street you currently stood on as well as across the road. Mirroring his action, you see three places Miss Wilson could have ventured too. A McDonald’s restaurant sits directly across from you, appearing somewhat ostentatious with its brightness in such a muted and sophisticated area. There is also a pizza restaurant and further down the road, the furthest from the building, sat an adorable looking café.

“Well if you were an aspiring model, or a young woman where would you go?” The detective asks you, but you can tell it is more of a rhetorical question. He already seems to know the answer.

“Well jeez Sherlock, if only I was a young woman …”

Sherlock looks confused for half a second, before rolling his eyes and looking completely exasperated with you.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” He mutters, heading past the fast food restaurant and towards a small, quaint looking café.

“I don’t agree with that. I think puns are pretty awful.” You reply as you walk quickly, trying to keep up with Sherlock and his massive strides. He ignores you, just walks ahead and swings the door to the café open, a small bell chiming from the inside as he does.

When you follow in after the detective, any attempt at continuing to tease the man falls short. The café is stunning, with a few two-seater tables scattered around, each with a flower vase on top. The tea cups looked vintage and stunningly dressed business men and woman sat around sipping hot drinks and eating cakes that made you want to cry …

“Over there.” Sherlock says, pulling you out of your head. You look over to where he is glancing and notice a young teenage boy behind the desk, busily putting delicious looking things into boxes that were much too fancy to hold food in your opinion.

As you follow the detective over to the desk, you notice some people begin to look up from there food and drinks to ogle in your direction. At first you think it must be because of your famous companion, but then you see they are all staring at you. Self-consciously, you play with your battered coat, pulling it around yourself like a security blanket.

“Sherlock Holmes?!” The boy exclaims as you approach, sounding excited and pulling over his plastic gloves to reach out to the detective for a handshake.

“Pleasure.” Sherlock replies coolly, shaking the young man’s hand. You wondered how he could have possibly known the man was a fan of his. Then part of your brain wondered if Sherlock was just assuming.

“Do you happen to remember seeing this young woman?” Sherlock asks, holding out his phone and you wonder how he managed to get a photo of Miss Wilson. You sincerely hoped he didn’t have a habit of randomly taking candid pictures of people.

“Oh yeah, I know her.” The teenager says, looking at the picture Sherlock held in his hand and nodding to himself. “She was a regular; came in here a lot.”

“How often?” Sherlock says, placing his phone back into his coat and looking around the small café.

“Every day, same time as well.”

“Did you see which direction she came and left in?” Sherlock asks before looking back at the boy with a frown etched onto his features.

You begin to zone out of the conversation between the two men, and instead your gaze is locked on one of the displays by the window. The cakes and sweets gleamed in the light, and they looked heavenly. Your mouth filled with saliva, and you quickly tried not to think about food. Before you have a chance to start planning your order however, you notice one of the small decorative signs above the goodies indicating the price. Sighing, you turn back to Sherlock and the young man behind the counter. You would never be able to afford the amount they were asking, especially not just for a cake. You wondered to yourself if the people sat around and ordering there food realised how fortunate they are to be able to order whatever they wanted …

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s voice pulls you back to reality, and you quickly move to follow him from the café.

“So?” You ask as you walk back out into London, wrapping your coat around yourself more to fight away the cold.

“You weren’t paying attention.” The detective retorts, before pulling out his phone and casually sending a text as he walked.

“Sorry, I got distracted.” You murmur with a smile.

“He saw her walk in and out of the office building every day, although he never saw anyone else leave to get food.”

“That’s weird.” You reply, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at you questioningly “I mean, that place was fancy but it didn’t have a canteen. And I don’t people who worked in a place like that would have lunchboxes …”

Sherlock smiles as you cross over a road, beginning to walk back to Baker Street and, you hoped, a hot cup of tea.

“Miss Wilson was the only person that anyone around the office building ever saw leave that building. So that begs the question, why?”  

* * *

  **John Watson POV**

“Hello love!” Mrs Hudson greets me cheerfully at the door, moving to let me inside from the now freezing cold.

“Evening” I reply, before rubbing my snow covered boots on the welcome mat and beginning to walk towards the stairs. “They in?”

“She’s in her bedroom, and Sherlock …” Mrs Hudson smiles fondly, waving her hand to signal that it would be completely pointless to try and speak to him right now. No doubt the detective was busy working on a case, so I walk straight past the living room and up the second set of stairs to reach my old bedroom, which has since become yours.

“Hi John.” You greet me with a smile, putting down a newspaper that you had been folding and placing it extremely carefully on a pile with several others.

“I have some things for you. From Mary.” I clarify, noting your perplexed expression. I place the things on the end of the bed, and you over to me slowly, I note how exhausted you look, though it doesn’t surprise me, as you had spent the day being dragged all over London by Sherlock Holmes.

“Thank you.” You respond, genuinely grateful, and I smile fondly at you as you begin to sort through the small pile.

“Some clothes, and some bedding and blankets.”

“These are beautiful.” You say, holding up the patterned blanket and admiring it. It makes me smile even more.

“Apparently they don’t go with the new décor.” I reply, trying and failing to suppress an eye roll.

You giggle in response, before placing the blanket back onto the pile. Suddenly your expression darkens, and I worry that I have offended you.

“Thank you John.” Is all you say, although all the lightness has gone from your voice.

“Everything alright?”

“I went into this really nice café today with Sherlock,” You begin, sitting down on my old bed and fidgeting nervously “Everyone was staring at  me …” You don’t finish the sentence, but you don’t need to.

I walk towards you, before sitting near you on the end of the bed. “You sure they weren’t staring at Sherlock.” I supply, glad that I manage to get a smile from you.

“No.” You sigh, shaking your head.

 I reach a hand out towards you, but to my surprise you stand quickly, wiping away some tears that had begun to fall onto your face. You laugh, but I can see you all still upset.

“Look at me! I can’t believe myself.” You shake your head, before walking over to your pile of newspapers to resume whatever it was you had been doing before I had interrupted you. “I’m lucky, I have a roof over my head, friends, and a have a job to do …” I realise now that you are talking more to yourself than me, so rise from the bed,

“Goodnight.” I reply, before turning and walking from my old room.

“John?” Your voice makes me turn, and I am glad to see a genuine smile on your face, although tears still are welled up in your wide eyes. “Thank you.” You reply, motioning over to the things I had delivered.

I smile, before making my way down the stairs as quietly as possible, trying desperately not to disturb anyone.  

“Still here John?” Sherlock’s voice stops me in my tracks, and I turn and walk towards him from my place on the landing. He stands at his desk in the living room, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Just talking to your ‘new assistant’” I reply, and I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face. “She’s …” I pause then, my expression falling when I remember our conversation.

“Yes?” Sherlock asks, and I am confused for a moment that the man appears to be showing … concern? Or maybe my friend just can’t handle an unfinished sentence.  

Unsure of how to respond, I simply look over to your coat, hanging sadly and limp on the hook next to Sherlock’s. It is torn and well worn, although it never smells or ever gets stained when you eat or drink, and it reminds me how much pride you have. Sherlock follows my gaze, before looking back at his collection of paperwork with a sigh.

“Oh.” The detective says, placing his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight between his feet.

“Why don’t you notice?” I ask my companion, moving further into my old living room.

“Of course I notice John, I just choose not to comment.”

“This isn’t about you Sherlock. She’s …”

“Completely capable.” The detective interrupts me, and I sigh in frustration, moving even further into the room to ensure that you won’t hear our conversation.

“Ashamed. Embarrassed.” I supply, trying to make Sherlock understand. He just turns and faces me, looking confused, which is an expression I don’t often see on the man’s face.

“Of me?”

“Of herself.”

I watch closely as my friend sighs, before turning back to his stack of papers and seemingly beginning to read them once again. I didn’t know much about the case you were currently working on with Sherlock, but apparently it involved a woman of some sort. The picture on the desk Sherlock was currently investigating showed a stunning young woman.

“What did she say to you?” The detective asks quietly, not taking his eyes from the picture as he addressed me.

“She thinks it’s awkward. You take her into these places and people stare at her.”

“That says more about them than it does her John.” Sherlock replies, finally placing down the picture before gathering up the papers into something resembling a pile.

“I know. Just …” I sigh then, not really sure how to continue. I didn’t want the anything to offend you, and I feared that giving you new clothes, sending you shopping or even mentioning getting a new look would do exactly that.

“She gets a fair bit of money.” Sherlock says suddenly, walking over to his chair by the fire and picking up his violin that sat on it.

“Really?” I respond incredulous, watching as my friend began to tune his violin. That was one thing about 221B that I did not miss; impromptu musical recitals at 2 in the morning.

“Must be around £100 a week.”

“From where?” I ask, before looking at my watch. Mary was expecting me back soon, and I notice Sherlock glance in my direction after I lower my arm.

“Payment for her assistance.” Sherlock answers simply.

He holds his violin up to his shoulder, but to my surprise, he doesn’t begin to play. He just paces around the room, appearing to be lost in thought.

“So, where does it go then?” I ask.

I knew that people in the Homeless Network where getting money from Sherlock, and even sometimes police and clients as a thank you for their assistance. Now that Sherlock and I had mentioned it, I realised I had never seen you buy anything with this money. It was all cash, so you must be keeping it somewhere. Or …

“She’s spent it.” Sherlock supplies, although he looks troubled.

“Well …” Before I can respond however, I suddenly realise what my friend is implying. “You don’t think …?”

“No” Sherlock replies quickly, beginning to pluck his violin. “She’s not a junkie John.” Sherlock continues, although he doesn’t sound certain.

We stop then, looking at each other, almost as if we are both daring each other to say something. I clear my throat, desperately not wanting to get involved in  _that_ conversation.

“Well I better be heading back, night.” I say quickly, sending a smile in Sherlock’s direction before turning and heading out into the cold of London.

I hear the violin play as I leave, although it is a tune I don’t recognise. It sounds more modern than my friends usual taste and part of me wonders if it is for your benefit. The thought makes me smile, and I pull my coat tighter around myself, before raising an arm and hailing a taxi to take me home to my very pregnant wife. She’ll love to hear about this …

* * *

**Reader POV**

You are woken up the next morning by loud footsteps and banging coming from downstairs. You roll your eyes, pull your covers tighter around yourself and try and ignore the persistent noises rising up into your room. After a few minutes you sigh in frustration and look over at the clock resting against the wall of John Watson’s old room. 7am. Well that wasn’t horrendous, you think as you begin to rub your eyes, trying to fight away sleep. Suddenly, an almighty crash comes from downstairs and you quickly shoot up out of bed in shock. You often anticipated Sherlock screaming your name to wake up in the mornings whilst you were working on a case, but this was far less favourable.

You were both officially in the middle of his latest case, and so you had no idea when or where you would be heading out to or even if you needed to assist the detective. As you haphazardly make your bed, you hear some more loud noises. This time however you cannot place what the sound is, and have absolutely no idea what is going on downstairs. Your own curiosity gets the better of you, and you slowly creep down the wooden stairway to the second floor of 221B, and into the living room.

Sherlock Holmes is stood by the unlit fireplace staring intently at the two chairs belonging to himself and John Watson. To your surprise, and confusion, one is upside down and the other appeared to have been dragged across the floor as the carpet was in complete disarray. 

“Morning” You say quietly as you walk into the room, wishing that you had put on more clothes than your cotton shorts and big baggy man’s t-shirt. The change from sleeping in a real apartment meant that you were warmer than usual however, and so wearing a jacket seemed to be pointless to you.

“We’re taking a visit to Miss Wilson today.” Sherlock says suddenly, marching away from the two abused chairs and towards his desk where he begins to collect some of his notes and evidence.

“Oh.”

Your voice makes Sherlock look up from his work, and eye you curiously. You feel awkward under his gaze, and wonder if your response had sounded as disappointed in real life as it did in your head.

“Oh?” Sherlock asks, although he now seems to be amused. Or smug …

“Sorry, erm … let me go and get changed. I’ll be five minutes.”

You hold up a finger to the detective before dashing upstairs back to where you were staying. Automatically, you walk over to your rucksack intent on picking out some clothes, before remembering the collection of new clothes you had been gifted. Thinking about who you were to visit, you decide it probably would be better to wear something clean. Pulling out a pair of freshly ironed jeans and a button down blue shirt, you walk over to the mirror in the room and watch yourself as you try on the clothes. They are simply and plain, but clean and heavenly soft on your skin. Disappointedly, you realise you will need something else, and so choose a brightly coloured cardigan that Molly had gifted to you. Smiling at your reflection, you gather your notebook and pen and walk down the stairs quickly, stopping at the bottom to put on your trainers. When you walk into the living room you notice that Sherlock has already put on his scarf, coat and gloves and is anxiously waiting for you. 

“What?” You ask, noticing his questioning gaze.

“Nothing, let’s go.” He replies simply, gesturing that you should follow him.

You move to grab your coat but then stop suddenly. It is filthy compared to your new clothes, and would completely ruin your new look.

“Bring it.” Sherlock’s voice echoes from the stairs, even though you can’t see him.

You don’t argue with the detective, knowing that it is probably freezing outside. With a sigh you pull on the coat, making a mental note to take it off as soon as you reach Miss Wilson’s house and hopefully she will not notice it.

Sherlock stands outside when you leave the building, holding his hand out to signal down a taxi. One pulls up quickly, and you wonder if every cabby in London knew about the detective and just hung around waiting for him. The thought makes you smile to yourself as you climb in behind the detective, careful not to dirty your new jeans as you do.

“Here” Sherlock says as you shift around in your seat. He holds out a chocolate bar in one hand, whilst simultaneously texting on his phone in the other. You take it with a muttered thank you, watching as the detective glares at his mobile.

“Mycroft?” You ask, wondering what the man could want at such an early time in the morning.

“Yes.” The man replies simply, before hiding his phone away in his coat pocket and making no attempt to check it, despite the fact that even you can hear it buzzing.

You begin to slowly eat the chocolate bar, grateful for something to give you a little bit of energy. You wondered if it was John’s idea, but don’t question Sherlock about it, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

“What are we going to tell Miss Wilson? We didn’t find anything.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock says with a smile, turning to glance out of the window at the misty and cold London morning. “Because there was nothing to find there.”

“Why would someone go to the trouble of creating a fake company? I mean, it seems like such a lot of work to go through, just to scam someone.”

“Because the reward is worth it.” Sherlock replies, and you turn to gaze at him.

“Do you know who is doing it?”

“No, but that’s what we’re going to find out.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzes again, the noise filling up the small taxi and making even the driver stop and look in his mirror for a few seconds. Sherlock grinds his teeth together in annoyance, before suddenly looking like he has had an idea. Before you have time to question him, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and wordlessly hands it over to you.

You scrunch up your empty chocolate wrapper into a ball and place it in your pocket before answering the call.

“Hello Mycroft.” You say somewhat cheerily, looking over to Sherlock for some inclination about what you’re doing answering his phone.

Mycroft says your name and you can hear his trademark amusement “My little brother has you answering his calls now. Whatever next. Are you to become the live in housemaid?”

Sherlock, hearing the comment, whips his head around with a glare at the phone, but you just laugh.

“I’d be useless. I can’t cook and have no idea how to work a washing machine.”

Mycroft laughs once quickly with genuine amusement, before becoming serious once again.

“Tell my dear brother that when he is ready to stop sulking, I need to speak to him, urgently.”

“Okay …” You drag the word out, looking over at Sherlock who just continues to glare out of the window like the whole world has done him wrong.

“Tell him …” Mycroft pauses then, and you don’t try and prompt him. You just hold the phone to your ear, waiting. “Tell him it is a family matter.”

“I will.” You say earnestly.

“Good morning …” Mycroft says as a farewell, and you smile after you hear him hang up. The man could be polite, when he wasn’t appearing in his sleek black car out of nowhere and asking you for favours.

Sherlock holds his hand out for the phone, and you oblige quickly.

“He said it was a family matter Sherlock. That sounds serious.”

“My brother has a habit of making everything sound serious.”

The cab pulls up outside an enormous London townhouse, and you spend so long gawking at it that Sherlock reaches around you and exits the taxi. You climb out slowly, unable to stop your mouth from falling open at the sheer size of the building.

“I knew she was rich but …” You whistle childishly, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes at your antics before turning and walking towards the door.

As he does, you take the time to pry of your dishevelled coat, unveiling your new clothes beneath. You know Sherlock notices what you are doing, but he doesn’t comment, just rings the door bell and stands with you outside the door whilst you wait for Miss Wilson.

To your surprise, a young woman opens the door, who invites you into the house and takes both yours and Sherlock’s coat. You smile shyly at her when you hand your over, and she returns the expression, before exiting the sitting room you are told to wait in.

“Mr Holmes.”

“Miss Wilson.” “You remember my associate …” To your surprise, Sherlock adds a ‘Miss’ to the beginning of your name, and you walk forward to shake hands with your client. You revel in the fact that she falters for a moment, before apparently recognising you.

“Of course, pleasure.” She says, somewhat icily, before inviting you both to sit down.

“Miss Wilson, we have come to inform you that the Agency you signed with in London does not exist.” Sherlock begins, pulling out some documents and placing them on the table before him.

“Before we begin, would you like some tea Mr Holmes?” Jessica sounds flustered, and you frown at her sudden change in mood.

“My associate will take tea, black with two sugars. Nothing for me thank you.” Sherlock says smoothly, and Miss Wilson turns to address another young woman stood in the doorway who you had not even noticed. You do not have time to be surprised by Sherlock before he begins talking again, and you pay close attention.

“The building the Agency was based in was rented for three months under the impression that it was to remain unaltered and to be a temporary photographer studio.” Sherlock continues, showing Miss Wilson a lease from the building he had no doubt uncovered last night whilst you had been asleep. “Your contracts and other paperwork where never posted, but were destroyed in one of the offices. You were the only person outside the people who you worked with that new of this … agency.”

“But that’s impossible.” Miss Wilson says, shaking her head so that he long curled red hair falls across her shoulders. “I saw all of the offices as I walked around the building. They’re must have been …”

“They’re only ever were three people in that building Miss Wilson. Four including yourself. The female receptionist, the young man who posed as the manager who hired you and the photographer.”

You notice that Sherlock used the word ‘posed’ and pick up on that immediately. Miss Wilson however, seems to be too shocked to notice.

“The other workers?”

“None. Any other noises you heard in that office coming from meeting rooms or the reception were simply from the neighbouring office buildings. The cameras from those buildings were hacked so that the audio would play through the speaker system throughout your building.”

You stop and listen as Sherlock gradually explains to Miss Wilson about the scam. You can see at times that she is trying to cry and respect the fact that she is managing to keep it together. A young woman comes in with your tea after a few moments, and you sit on the sofa drinking it slowly as Sherlock asks his client more questions.

“I would like my associate to have a quick look around your house, whilst I talk to your assistant” Sherlock says after a while, and you place your now empty cup on the table.

“My assistant?” Miss Wilson asks, and you and Sherlock both frown at her confusion.

“Yes, the one who first notified you of the job.”

Miss Wilson leans back in her chair and rubs her hands over her eyes. She no longer looks upset, but annoyed.

“He left.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock says, and you turn to see his expression change to one that almost makes you laugh. You can practically see the word ‘error’ written on his face.

“The young man left my employment yesterday morning when he discovered that I was no longer employed. He claimed that it would be stupid to stay with someone who did not have a regular wage …”

“I see.” Sherlock says simply after Jessica trails off. He clears his throat, before standing swiftly. “Then may we …”

“Of course.” Miss Wilson says, gesturing with her hand that you are both free to leave and explore her house.

Sherlock sends you a look and you rise from the sofa to quickly follow him from the room.

“So the assistant is working with the three people from the office building.” You whisper when you are out of earshot of the client.

“Two,” Sherlock replies quickly, opening a door and quickly peering in before shutting it just as quickly and continuing his path down the hallway.

“What?”

“The photographer had nothing to do with it. He was hired as a freelancer and paid in full two days ago for the work he did.”

“How …”

“I contacted him last night.” Sherlock replies simply, and you sigh.

“Of course. Do you do a lot when I’m asleep?”

“Yes.”

You continue to walk through the house together, occasionally wandering into a room. You noticed that Miss Wilson appeared to be a huge fan of modern things, as everything you looked at appeared to be new and barely used. Not to mention, extremely expensive.

After a quick look around you make your way back into the living room. Jessica Wilson is sat on the sofa when you re-enter the room, and looks up when Sherlock comes striding in.

“Miss Wilson, does this building have an attic?” The detective says suddenly, and you pretend to know what the man is talking about.

“No, not that I’m aware of. Although …” Miss Wilson stops then, before becoming wide eyed.

“Yes?” Sherlock prompts, moving closer to where the woman was sat.

“There is a basement. I used if for storage when I first moved in and haven’t been down there since.”

“To store what?”

“Old family things, paintings and antiques mostly. They didn’t go with the house so I just -”

“Your assistant helped you move them into the attic.” Sherlock interrupts. Suddenly his expression changes, and he bounds over to the sofa where you had both sit. He talks a seat quickly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Sherlock?” You do not follow the detective, but stay stood in the doorway awkwardly.

 “Call Lestrade, tell me to come here alone at once. Armed.” He adds almost as an afterthought. You pull out your mobile and dial the number quickly; trying not to fret over the fact that Sherlock wanted an armed police officer.

You end the call with Lestrade quickly, with only the mention of Sherlock needing his assistance being enough to have the man guarantee he would be with you immediately.

“Miss Wilson, would you please contact your bank and ask them when the last time is was when you visited them?”

Miss Wilson frowns at the strange request but doesn’t argue, leaving the room quickly just as a car pulls up outside the building, and Lestrade makes his way to the front door.

* * *

“So this assistant told his buddies that his boss had a stash of priceless things in the attic.” Lestrade says after Sherlock had informed him of the case so far.

“But then why the Agency?” You say from your spot on the sofa, looking up at the two men near the fireplace. “I mean, that was a pretty elaborate."

“They not only needed to get Miss Wilson out of the house long periods of time, they needed information. Personal information that -”

“You would give to an employer.” You supply, pleased when Sherlock nods at you before placing his hands in his pockets.

“Bank details, passport details, previous employment …” The man recites, shifting his weight around on his feet in his typical manner.

“Why?” Lestrade asks after a few seconds of silence, and Sherlock turns to look at him like the man had said something completely mad.

“ _Why_? Isn't it glaringly obvious?”

“Insurance?” You supply and Sherlock crinkles his eyes as if to say, ‘not quite’. He looks over to Lestrade who just shrugs.

“Those belongings have been in Miss Wilsons family for a very long time. Artefacts like that can’t just be sold, not even on the black market. They would need the documents that came with them to prove they were authentic. Which means …”

“They would need to get them. And they’re in her bank safe.” You answer, and although it is a guess, you assume it’s a good one when Sherlock smiles at you and nods.

“So they did all that with the office to get the information they needed so they could go to the bank, pick up the documents, and  _then_ steal the goods.” Lestrade supplies, nodding his head in understanding.

“Not just that …” Sherlock continues, before looking over at you. Your eyes widen with realisation, and you smile triumphantly.

“The pictures”

“What pictures?” Lestrade asks, as Sherlock almost bounces with joy that someone in the room is keeping up with him.

“They took hundreds of pictures of Miss Wilson. Hundreds of expressions and outfits. It's an extremely detailed catalogue of the woman.”

“Why?” Lestrade asks, looking thoroughly confused. You turn to Sherlock, expecting him to answer but he just waves his hand, signalling that you should continue.

“So they have all the personal information they need, and now they have enough to create a perfect impersonation …”

“Impersonation?” Lestrade says incredulously, and it’s your turn to roll your eyes in exasperation.

“Yes impersonation” Sherlock snaps at the inspector “They used the red headed receptionist to go to the bank in Miss Wilson place, knowing full well that she would be at the office where they could monitor her. They used the information they had to enter the safe and get the documents, and then had the pictures to ensure that the young woman looked and behaved exactly like Miss Wilson.”

“Hang on, if they wanted to rob her why didn’t they just do it? Why do something so elaborate?” Lestrade asks, crossing his arms and scowling. Your head was beginning to hurt from all the chaos, but secretly who were thrilled that you had managed to keep up with Sherlock.

“Because these people are clever Lestrade.” The detective replies, smirking at the inspector, causing him to glare back.

“Breaking into a house is one thing. A bank though …” Your statement is cut short when the door opens and Miss Wilson enters the room, holding her mobile phone.

“Three days ago.” Miss Wilson says, her face pale and eyes wide. “Apparently I was there three days ago and emptied out one of my safety boxes …”

“Miss Wilson, I suggest you go up to bed and get some rest.” Sherlock says suddenly, and you frown at Lestrade who mirrors your actions. “With your permission, we will stay here.”

“Why?” Miss Wilson asks, not making any move to turn and walk upstairs.

“Because you are going to be robbed tonight Miss Wilson.” The detective replies, and in that moment, you are glad the two men with you are armed.

* * *

Why did I ever agree to work with Sherlock Holmes?

That was the thought that kept racing through your mind as you crouched in the darkness, listening intently for any sign of movement. Lestrade was waiting outside the building with some police officers, and Sherlock had somehow managed to convince John to join you on your little adventure.

The basement to Miss Wilson’s house was freezing cold. There were no windows to let in light, so without the small blinking blub the room was completely pitch black. An old ‘servants entrance’ was the doorway in which Sherlock decided the thieves would enter the basement so naturally, that’s exactly where the detective had told you to hide. So here you were, crouched behind a huge wooden crate directly next to the door. John Watson was sat silently on the wooden stairway on the other side of the room that led upstairs, and the famous Sherlock Holmes was hidden somewhere else.

“Remind me not to listen to you ever again …” John whispers grumpily, and you hear a slight groaning of wood when the man apparently shifts his weight.

“Ssh …” Sherlock silences John quietly, but still manages to sound annoyed. 

Both John and Sherlock were armed, and you were extremely glad. The plan was, you were to wait until the robber’s entered the room. You would flank them from behind, quickly appearing from your hiding place and startling them to turn in your direction. Sherlock would stand and flick on the lights, showing that he and John were armed. Then they would march the thieves outside to the awaiting Lestrade and his police.

“Why aren’t the police doing this Sherlock …” You whisper as quietly as you could, and you wonder for a few seconds if the man had even heard you.

“They can’t.” Sherlock hisses back and you stop and try and understand what the detective means.

You didn’t understand why the police could just take your places, but then it hits you. Sherlock doesn’t have solid evidence. The building Miss Wilson worked in was completely monitored by these thieves. They made it so there was absolutely no evidence that they even existed. According to the bank, Miss Wilson legally obtained her documents and there was no crime committed whatsoever. And as for Miss Wilson’s assistant, all she had was the idea that he helped her move these valuable things into the basement.

Sherlock had put these small pieces of information together to solve the case, but without hard evidence such as witnesses and confessions, the police couldn’t technically  _do_ anything. Not of course, until the robbers turned up. Hence why Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and you were currently hiding in a freezing cold and pitch black basement in order to catch a group of people who may or may not try to break in.

You amuse yourself with these ideas for what seems to be ages. Miss Wilson had gone up to bed at 10pm sharp on Sherlock’s orders. After collecting John and coming down for the stake out, it must have been around 11pm. Now, with the fact that London was becoming relatively quiet outside and you were trying desperately not to fall asleep, you guessed you must have been here for a few hours at least.

Suddenly, you hear a rattling. The door you crouch near begins to shake almost unperceptively, and you freeze. You realise why Sherlock had thought that this would be there way in. According to Miss Wilson, there was no key for this door and it was never used. Apparently, that rule didn’t apply to her old assistant, who casually but silently swings the door open and strolls into the basement. You hear his footsteps as he walks past you, but wait silently, feeling that there may be someone else. Your gut feeling serves you well, as a few seconds later, the sound of someone else entering the room startles you.

“The car is waiting …” A male voice whispers and you notice that it is a foreign accent.

“This one …” Another voice replies, and you guess by his impeccable British accent that this is the assistant.

You wait until you hear the noise of boxes being shifted around, before quickly appearing from your hiding place. You shout “FREEZE!” It was cliché but it worked, with the two men startling and quickly turning in your direction.

Sherlock flicks on the lights, and you quickly blink to help your eyes adjust to the sudden change. You wish you hadn’t though, when you notice that there are not two men, but three. And all of them are armed.

“Drop your guns …” John’s steady voice echoes throughout the basement, and you know that he and Sherlock both have their guns trained on the intruders. However, you are not armed. The man facing you sees this, and smirks.

You duck just in time to avoid the bullet that soars past your head, and despite the ringing in your ears you are glad he shot at you. Lestrade can come …

“DROP IT!” John shouts, and you look up behind the crate in time to see him pinning one man to the floor and holding a gun against him. The man loosens his grip on his gun, and it clatters to the ground. Before you have time to look for Sherlock, a huge weight pushes you to the stone floor from behind. The wind is knocked out of you, and you don’t have a second to recover before you are swiftly kicked in the face.

Everything becomes blurry, and you blink as you roll around on the stone floor, trying to clear away the fuzziness and focus on what is happening.

More yelling occurs, and you vaguely make out several figures enter the room from the doorway. Suddenly, rough hands haul you up from the floor and push you into a wall. You swing your hands around blindly, trying to break free, before you notice the woman’s face.

“Donavon?”

“Stay there.” The woman hisses, and you lean up against the wall, breathing heavily and trying to calm your rapid breathing.

Three police officers pry the assistant from the floor by John, whilst Donavon joins Lestrade and Sherlock in cornering a second man. The man who attacked you is nowhere to be seen.

“Mr Clay.” Sherlock says coolly, and Lestrade laughs. He actually laughs.

“Friend of yours?” Donavon asks, holding her gun up to the man as two police officers enter the room and move to escort Mr Clay.

“Been looking for this Bastard for ages.” Lestrade says in his typical London drawl. “Mr Johnathan Clay …” Lestrade says the name the same way the man says ‘diet’ or ‘low fat’. Obviously he wasn’t a fan …

“Who?” John says, following Sherlock out of the basement and you move quickly to follow them, ignoring the concerned glance Donovan sends you. You walk up the stone staircase up onto the streets of London slowly, enjoying seeing the flashing blue lights.

“John Clay, a man of Royal European descent who lost his fortune due to gambling and addiction …”

“The usual.” John says with a hint of amusement, and you wonder how many royals the two men had met before.

“ _He’s_ royalty …” You ask incredulously, stepping out onto the street behind John and Sherlock and watching as the man is all but dragged towards the police cars.

“Get your hands off me!” The screaming of John Clay echoes down the deserted street, and the young police officer holding him grasps the man’s arm more firmly. “I’m ROYALTY! ROYALTY DAMN YOU!”

“Our apologies …” John says loudly enough for the man to hear him, as Mr Clay whips his head around to glare at him. Another police officer steps forward to cuff the man, but the man still struggles. “Would His Majesty please remain calm so we can  _please_ escort Sir to the police station. Please.”

You stifle your smile as the man blusters and struggles against the two police officers who manhandle him into a waiting police car.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice is concerned, and you turn to frown at him curiously. Concern coming from Sherlock was rare … and it was freaking you out a little bit.

“What?” You ask before reaching towards the spot on your forehead that the man was all but glaring at. You wince in pain involuntarily when you touch it, and feel some hot blood cling to your fingers and run down the side of your face. 

“I’ll have a look at that when we get back to Baker Street.” John says, pulling out his mobile and apparently texting Mary.

“I’m fine …” You start, but one look from John is enough to shut you up.

“Want a ride home gentlemen? And Miss …” Lestrade asks, approaching your group who stand awkwardly outside the entrance to Miss Wilson’s home.

“There were three men …” You begin, before swaying slightly on your unsteady feet.

“She needs to go to a hospital …” Donovan says coolly, and you begin to shake your head before she even finishes her sentence.

“No need. We have a Doctor at Baker Street. I’ll meet you there soon.” Sherlock states, and you are too tired to argue. You let John lead you down the road to find a taxi, sighing when you hear Lestrade call after you that all  _three_ men will be taken to the police station. You wave a farewell, before heading home. 

* * *

You and John arrive at Baker Street before Sherlock. He insisted in going along with Lestrade to ensure that everyone at the police station had the correct information, much you assume, to the delight of Lestrade and his team.

“Here, this should warm you up.” John says kindly, placing a thick and expensive looking glass into your hands.

You smell the golden liquid within the glass, and can’t help but pull a face at the overwhelming scent.

“Drink it.” John persists with a smile, coming to sit next to you on the sofa with a first aid kit in his hands.

“I didn’t know Doctor’s prescribed alcohol. Where do you work?” You joke lightly, before taking a tiny swig of the liquid. It burns your tongue and throat slightly, but your friend is right, it warms you up immediately and you sigh in contentment.

“What happened? I didn’t even notice …” John sounds guilty you realise, and you shrug casually to try and make light of the situation.

“He kicked me.”

“In the head?!” John responds angrily, and you hope the anger is not directed at you.

“I was on the floor, and he kicked me. Probably tried to knock me out or something.”

John shakes his head and scoffs “I didn’t even notice. How could I not notice?" The man repeats, and you sigh. 

“To be fair, you were pretty occupied.” You reply, before taking another swig of your drink to distract you from the stinging pain that came as John cleaned your wound.

You sit in silence for a few moments, allowing John to Doctor you without protest. He sighs every now and again, and you hope he’s not hurt as well. After a view more minutes of poking and prodding, John seems content with his work, and reaches into the bag to extract something before closing it and throwing it down onto the sofa next to him.  

“Painkillers, take them tomorrow. No doubt you’ll have a bit of a headache.” John says, carefully placing a small tray of six tablets into your hands. “I’m heading home, but if you feel dizzy, nauseous, unexplainably irritated -”

“John, I’m staying with Sherlock Holmes. I always feel irritated”

John laughs, before looking at you with concern. “I’m sorry, we should have -”

You hold up a hand to silence him. “John I know what I’m getting into. Being with Sherlock is just as bad, if not safer, than being on the streets. I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself.”

You don’t know where that comment had come from, and wonder if you had drank more alcohol than you may have thought.

“Bed.” The man replies simply, before surprising you immensely by giving a quick kiss on the forehead.

“Goodnight John.”

* * *

“John said bed rest.” Sherlock’s voice startles you, and you turn to see the detective stood by the window, looking out onto London with his violin in his hands.

You take the final two steps in a normal manner, your plan of sneaking out now seeming completely stupid. Of course the man would hear you. He’s Sherlock Holmes …

“And I am rested, just going out for a bit …”

To your surprise Sherlock doesn’t argue or even comment. He just huffs a response, before picking up his violin and begin to play a haunting melody. You take that as your cue to leave and slowly descend down the stairs, making doubly sure that you’re carrying your needed cash in your pocket.

* * *

**John Watson POV**

The buzzing of my mobile wakes me, and I groan as I blindly reach around on my night stand. I had arrived home at 4am, and it was now 6am. I was going to kill Sherlock Holmes …

“Sherlock, do you have any idea what time it is?” I hiss into the phone, freezing when Mary shifts in her sleep and turns away from me.

“She’s gone”

“Gone?” I frown, not understanding “What do you mean gone?”

“She went out, about half an hour ago.”

I sigh, rubbing my eyes to clear away sleep and wake myself up a bit. “Ok, don’t panic …”

“Panic? I’m not panicking, I don’t panic.” Sherlock says, so quickly that I roll my eyes.

“Sure you don’t.”

“Just come to Baker Street” Sherlock replies and it’s not a request, but a demand. 

“Why?” I ask, before realisation hits me. I sigh once again, sitting up in bed slowly and trying not to jostle my sleeping wife. “You’re going to follow her.”

“Yes, and the longer you delay, the harder that’s going to be.”

I turn to look at Mary. “Alright” I whisper into the phone, “Give me ten minutes.”

* * *

**Reader POV**

You squinted as you walked down the streets of London, the persistent throbbing of your head making you feel exhausted and fed up. But you had something you needed to do first, and so you kept walking. Occasionally, you would reach down and tap the pocket that stored your £100 cash, just to make sure it was still there. The walk to the café took a long time, your tired feet dragging and every crossing seeming to keep you waiting, despite the early hour. As you reach your destination however, the smell of hot food and the music quietly pouring over to you makes you smile brightly.

“’Ello darlin’!” Michael greets you as you walk over to the counter of the tiny London café. It was cheap and greasy, but many times had been your saving grace.

You smile at an elderly gentlemen sat at a table, and he tips his holey black hat in your direction, making you giggle.

“Cuppa?” Jill, Michaels’ wife asks from her place behind the counter.

“Please.” You respond brightly, unbuttoning your coat slightly after being hit by the wave of warmth from the kitchen.

Michael whistles, and you smile shyly. “Nice digs, they new?” The man asks, eyeing your new top and jumper.

“Yep” You reply fondly “Got them for work.”

“Oh that’s right, you’re working with Holmes now eh. Looks like we’ve got a detective on our ‘ands love.” Michael says jokingly to Jill, as she steps around him and passes you a small foam cup containing scolding hot tea. 

You reach into your coat, and pull out the 5 £20 notes. “Here’s for the next month.” You say, and Jill and Michael both beam at you.

“Right, no problem darling. The amount of people that wish they knew who you were …” Michael says, shaking his head with a smile as he puts the money in the till.

“What?” You ask, before taking a quick sip of tea.

“When your people come in and we say it’s already paid for, they want to know who you are.” Jill says with a smile. You nearly laugh at the fact that she had said ‘your people’ rather than simply ‘homeless people’.

“Can I get some chips and teas to take out.” You say suddenly “I’m going to see a couple of mates.”

“Course” Jill says with a beaming smile, before walking back into the kitchen and beginning to make up your order.

You leave the café a few minutes later, the tea having warmed you up perfectly and distracted you somewhat from your aching head. Neither of your friends had mentioned your bandaged head, but then again, they never cared what you looked like, just that you were happy and well fed. That was probably the reason that so many people you knew chose that café, you muse, as you walk back down the streets towards your second destination.

You spot the gang sat in their usual spot, all huddled together and laughing despite the freezing cold. A smile grows on your face as you approach them, and they all wave and woop when they spot you.

“Good morning my love.” Bill, the 76 year old man says from his spot under his sleeping bag.

You wish everyone a good morning, before handing out the tea’s and chips.

“God bless” David says, the 28 year old recovering drug addict showing his lack of teeth when he smiles at you warmly.

“Everyone alright?” You ask after the goods had been passed around, and a murmured chorus of ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ is the response.

“You alright darling?” The older woman of the group asks, nodding towards your head. You didn’t even know her name, but the woman was amazing, almost like the mother of the group.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine” You murmur in response, self-consciously reaching up to touch your bandaged injury. “Just a little bump and bruise. I’ll live.”

The woman smiles, before tucking in to her chip breakfast. Watching the group eat and listening to their stories usually makes you feel happy. Since working with Sherlock, you had been getting money from clients as a thank you, meaning you could afford to do this for them on a regular basis. But now that you had a warm place to return to, a bed and a kitchen filled with somewhat edible food, you just felt guilty.

“You should be heading home darling.” Bill says, cradling his tea in his hands like it is something precious.

You didn’t even notice you had been sat with your friends for such a long time, and quickly hug everyone and say your goodbyes. You would return soon, but for now, you needed to be heading back to Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
